


Origins

by FruityPebblezz



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Child Abuse, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Origin Stories, Violence, lots of fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FruityPebblezz/pseuds/FruityPebblezz
Summary: The story of each mercenary (as well as Miss Pauling) and how they were put on the path which led them to where they ended up working.





	1. American Boy (Soldier/Jane Doe)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a new project of mine! People seem to enjoy on Tumblr so hopefully, you guys will too. It is fairly violent, in case you couldn't tell from the tags, as the mercs didn't have idyllic childhoods for the most part. Either way, please enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

The year was 1932, June 1st, and all the school children were waiting anxiously in the hot sun to present the projects that they’d worked on all year long. Their parents were all gathered in the gym, fanning themselves or checking the clock to see how much time they had left in that sweltering gymnasium. Of course, they wanted to see the children they were so proud of say what they had to say, but no adult is exactly thrilled about having to sit through speeches written by children that are not their own.

Finally, the principal graced the stage, and he took the microphone, beginning with, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! The Roselake County children are all very excited to present to you their projects! This year, we instructed the children to write about things they are passionate about, and then to tell us all how their passions will benefit society. So, in alphabetical order, we will begin!” he cleared his throat. “First up is Jonathan Apperly!”

The adults applauded, and one by one, the children came up to the podium and nervously read their papers out loud to the room of adults. Jonathan wrote about his passion for airplanes and how they were important to society, Ella spoke about the importance and benefits of gardening, and Rick stumbled through an essay about water systems. There was applause each time and the occasional whistles or shouts of support from the child’s family.

However, when the time came from the principal to read the next name, he grimaced. “Uh…um, up next is…Jane Doe,” he shuffled away quickly, glancing over his shoulder a few times as if he were fearful of what was about to come.

Jane came stomping onto the stage—he was well-known around town, for all the wrong reasons. At eleven years old, he was already tall for his age and rather muscular, and this was the first time he’d ever been allowed to present a project.

His blue eyes scanned the room, silently taking in every face he saw, and he leaned forward into the microphone to begin speaking.

“The kids from the high school,” he began, very focused on what he was saying. “Are very rude and mean and nasty. I don’t like them at all! But one day, they followed me home and made fun of my hair and clothes…I was very mad. So, I punched one of them! I kicked him to the ground and pulled his hair, and the other boys tried to stop me but I just punched them too! I gave one three black eyes—”

“You can’t give someone three black eyes, dummy!” another boy from backstage snarked in a loud voice.

When Jane whirled around and angrily waved his fist at whoever dared to make that comment, the principal cut in. “Jane? Jane, please, for the love of God…just—what is it you are passionate about and how does it benefit society?”

Jane turned back to the audience, his eyes still hard and focused. “The point is I got in trouble for defending myself! I was the bad guy—but that’s why I think we all have to fight against the system!” he suddenly leaped up onto the podium, proclaiming, “Fight the system! Fight it! Punch mean people! Fight them! I’m tired of being nice—let’s all fight back! Let—”

He was cut off when the podium flew out from under his weight, and he crashed down into the row of seats before him, yelling as his face met the floor.

The principal gasped, jumping up and rushing to check on Jane, shaking his shoulder. “Jane! Jane, are you all right!?”

Jane sat up, touched his nose, pulled his hand away to look at it and when he noticed blood he began to wail pitifully, sobbing out in pain. The principal looked around helplessly until the math teacher came running over to gently lead Jane away from the scene.

The math teacher left Jane crying in the hallway, clutching a rag to his bloody nose. He could hear the other children giggling about him backstage, and he just wanted to curl up and disappear.

Just then, the gym doors came flying open, and a large hand grabbed his collar.

“Damn it, Jane!” his father’s voice came booming into his ears. “Why can’t you be a normal kid!? For Christ’s sake—I dunno why I even try with you!”

Bess came peeking over his shoulder, watching in concern. “Pa, another kid is reading,”

“Do I look like a give a shit!?” barked Michael Doe, and he yanked his son to his feet. “Come on, Bess, let’s get this idiot home,”

Michael shoved Jane into the truck, and Bess climbed in beside him. As the truck started up, Bess reached around to carefully pat Jane’s shoulder.

“Aw, come on, now,” Bess assured, smiling as sweetly as she could at Jane. “I thought you did very well,”

Jane sniffed, wiping his nose, smearing his blood all over his face. “R-really?”

Michael snorted contemptuously from the driver’s seat, and Bess shot him a look. “Pa!”

“Bess, he was awful!” Michael growled. “Don’t lie to the kid’s face!”

My Country ‘Tis of Thee began to play over the radio, and Michael turned the volume up. “You here that, Jane?” he called back to his son. “Your paper was supposed to be about benefittin’ society—you know who benefits society? The soldiers who fight for this country!” he sighed, looking out the window out at the road. “You’d make a fine soldier…you could finally put all your rage and shit to use. You ain’t succeeded in much, let me tell you, but you’d probably kill a few fellas pretty well!”

They pulled up to their house, where the shutters were rotting from the windows and the hounds barked outside. As Michael stepped out of the car, he yelled at the dogs, “Shut the hell up, you bastards! You make so much damn noise!”

Right away, Jane seemed to forget his bloody nose as he ran to the dogs, taking turns petting each other them and telling each of them how special he thought they were. Michael just rolled his eyes at the sight and went into the house, while Bess stayed behind to watch.

“You’re a good friend to them, Jane,” she remarked gently, coming up behind him and wrapping her plush arms around his smaller body.

Jane paused, but he didn’t stop stroking the dogs. “Animals are better than people,” he muttered.

“Well,” Bess considered the statement. “That ain’t totally true…there are good people, and there are bad animals. You ever see a baboon? I’ve seen them on the television, they’re nasty things! They could rip you up,”

“Baboons don’t say I ain’t succeeded in much,” Jane murmured bitterly.

Bess paused, and she sighed, rubbing at her younger brother’s back. “Yeah, yeah…I know,”

After a moment, she stood up, taking Jane’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go inside. Ma probably wants to see you,”

Jane just nodded. “Okay,”

Their mother sat in the living room, draped in her shawl as she sat in the rocking chair, just as she always did. Like always, she didn’t say a word, but she smiled at Jane when he approached her, and he laid his head in her lap.

Her hands caressed his scalp lovingly as she hummed to him, and Jane knew she didn’t need words to say she loved him. Jane tilted his head up to look at her, and he sniffed, “Mama…they laughed at me. What’s wrong with me? Am I ever gonna benefit society?”

His mother still said nothing, and she rubbed his cheek, still humming. There was always a sadness in her eyes, one he couldn’t understand. His father spoke about she used to talk, and how she used to be ‘normal’, but then after one bad day, she just shut down and never said another word. Jane didn’t get it: he had bad days all the time, but he could still talk.

“Jane!” Michael shouted from the kitchen. “Go feed those damn dogs, will you!? They won’t shut up!”

Jane’s head popped off his mother’s lap, and he patted her hand, assuring her, “I’ll be back, Mama,”

He grabbed the bag of dog food and lugged it outside, scooping out some to pour into the bowls. The hounds swarmed eagerly, each wanting to get a taste of the dry dog food and occasionally licking Jane’s hands. Jane smiled as he watched them, yet it wasn’t long before something else caught his attention.

Several feet away, in the yard, a small creature moved in the grass. Jane squinted, trying to get a good look, and it wasn’t long before he realized it was a kitten.

Jane gasped a little, and he moved closer, but he went slow as he didn’t want to startle the kitten. The kitten, a little orange thing, eventually noticed Jane and acted as if it were about to run away.

“Don’t run!” Jane begged, kneeling to make himself look smaller. “I like you a lot—do you wanna be my friend?”

The kitten seemed hesitant, but Jane extended his hand, showing he was friendly and meant no harm. After a moment, the kitten stepped forward to sniff him, and Jane began to pet her gently.

She purred, moving closer and rubbing against him, her eyes falling shut. Jane couldn’t stop grinning, and he picked up the kitten to get a better look at her. “You’re my friend, now! We should go inside, I can get you some chicken. Cats like chicken, right?”

The kitten only mewed in response, and Jane stood up, scooping up the little thing in his arms. However, it wasn’t long before he noticed someone way out by the fence, and they were coming closer.

It was Matteo Cancio—a boy from an Italian family who had moved next door just a few weeks earlier. Jane had never spoken to him, but he knew his father didn’t much care for him or his family.

Matteo noticed Jane, and he approached, hands in his pockets, a smug grin across his face. “Hey, are you Jane?” his accent was so odd to Jane’s ears, like nothing he’d ever heard before. “I thought you would be a girl…”

Jane scowled. “I’m not, I’m a boy. Can’t you see?”

“Whatever,” Matteo focused on the kitten in Jane’s arms. “What do you have there, Jane? A kitten?”

“Yeah,” Jane nodded. “She’s my new friend, she—”

Without warning, Matteo yanked the kitten out of Jane’s arms and bolted away, laughing. Jane gasped, about he gave chase, screaming, “Get back here! That’s my kitten, dummy!”

Jane chased Matteo through the field behind the houses, which was very overgrown but not hard to get through. Eventually, Matteo stopped at the dirt road beside the field, panting, holding the bewildered kitten in the air. “I got your kitten, Jane!”

Growling, Jane, tried to snatch the kitten back, but Matteo held it away from him, still giggling like a madman. Matteo then held the kitten down on the road, kneeling but grinning wickedly up at Jane. “Give me all the money in your pocket, or I crush this kitten!”

Jane felt himself panicking as the kitten mewled helplessly, and he rooted through his own pockets. “I-I don’t have anything! Give me the kitten back, please!”

Matteo’s wicked grin got wider, and he poised to strike his hand down. “Wrong—”

Something then came over Jane—something snapped in him. He tackled Matteo to the ground, pinning him there and beginning to mercilessly pummel him over and over, smashing his head into the dirt road beneath him and beating down on him.

Matteo shrieked something in Italian that Jane didn’t understand, and he tried to fight back, but Jane was much bigger stronger than him. When Jane took a moment to catch a breath, the beatings ceased momentarily, and Matteo took that moment to spit blood up in Jane’s face.

“Fuck America!” Matteo yelled, tears rolling down his face. “I hate this stupid country and everyone in it! I hope all you stupid Americans die!”

Jane glared down at Matteo for a moment, just thinking over what he’d said, and then he smacked him across the face. “No!” Jane barked, almost as loud as his father was when he yelled. “Our country isn’t stupid—you’re the stupid one! We live in a land of freedom and happiness, and we are the best! But you’re too stupid to see that! You just wanna hurt people who did nothing! Well, do you know what I’m gonna do!? I’m gonna hurt you and everyone like you who hates freedom and wants to hurt the innocent! I’m gonna kill people like you—and I’m gonna do it to fight for America!”

Matteo just started up at him, his eye bruised, blood pouring from a split lip. “You Americans are all the same,”

Jane gritted his teeth, and then he stood up, only to grab Matteo and flip him up and over his shoulder, dropping him directly on his head. He landed with a smack, directly on his head, and he lay limp in the dirt, his breathing labored, his eyes pressed shut.

Jane just watched, before leaning down to spit on him. As Matteo tried to inch away, Jane knelt beside a nearby stone, calling, “Kitten? Kitten, where did you go?”

The kitten appeared out from behind the stone, unharmed but terrified, and Jane gently picked her up. “C’mon, we’re gonna go home,” he assured softly, folding her in his arms. “Let’s go,”

He left Matteo alone in that field, and he didn’t look back. What happened to Matteo is something this story doesn’t tell, but it is safe to assume that he was forever changed by that incident.

Jane, however, went home with his kitten (who he later named Liberty) and a mission in his mind: he knew how he was going to benefit society and that was by fighting for his country.

He wanted to protect the innocent and destroy the guilty, and he vowed to himself that he was forever going to be an American soldier.

Jane opened the door to his front porch, Liberty tucked in his arms, and he went inside. He didn’t notice the woman staring at him from across the street, and he also didn’t notice how she smirked at him, her golden eyes glowing in the hazy light. 

“Good work, Jane,” she murmured, turning and walking back down the sidewalk.


	2. Showtime (Spy/Rene Besset)

“Is today the day?” Rene murmured to his reflection.

His reflection stared back, and he took stock of himself: he was still a boy, only seventeen, but he looked so tired. Redness still tinged his eyes, those blue eyes that matched his mother’s—he knew the answer in his heart.

“Yes,” he nodded, rising and taking a breath.

It was about eight in the evening. His mother was up in her bedroom, likely listening to the radio, and his stepfather was in the kitchen, drinking from his flask while he read the paper. Rene passed by the room which had once been the study, and he stood in the doorway.

The room was dark, but the walls were painted in a sickly pastel pink that reminded him of his mother’s perfume bottles. Little paintings of zoo animals and Noah’s Ark decorated the walls, and in the center of the room sat his sister’s bassinet. She’d been born just a few days earlier, and Rene knew this was the child his mother always wanted.

This was the future Amelie had always wanted: she’d been married young, too young, to an older man who passed away shortly afterward. She’d given birth to Rene, and then promptly forced into the life of a working single mother. But now, later in her life, she’d been graced with a new man whom she loved, and now they’d had a daughter. Rene had never seen his mother so happy in all her life, and he knew his presence in her life was only a reminder of the heartache she had suffered through. For her sake, and for his own, he knew he had to leave.

Despite everything, Rene chose to bid his newborn sister goodbye. He entered the room and knelt beside her bassinet, reaching inside to brush her cheek gently.

“I’m leaving now, Cadence,” he spoke softly, placing a hand on her head. “It was nice meeting you…I hope I’ll see you again, someday,”

His stepfather barked from the kitchen, “Let your sister rest, you stupid boy!”

Rene sighed, quickly kissing Cadence’s head. “Goodbye—be strong,”

He didn’t say anything to his stepfather, and he went upstairs to gather his things together. He got together all the money he’d saved, all the trinkets he’d stored, and anything else that could potentially be worth selling, and he tucked as many clothes as he could fit into his suitcase.

Finally, at about midnight, Rene got everything he needed to leave on his own. He was scared, he almost felt sick—but he felt he had to do it. There was no place for him here.

As he walked out into the hallway, he took one last look at his mother and his stepfather asleep in their bed. For a moment, he thought about waking them up and bidding them goodbye, but he chose not to. Maybe, if there was no goodbye, they would just forget about him with ease.

It was snowing out when Rene had finished his trek to the train station. He bought a ticket, and when the train arrived, he boarded it without an issue.

He passed the conductor on his way inside, and the man asked, “Where is a young man like you headed on a night like this?”

Rene barely looked up. “Nowhere,” he replied simply.

He’d barely thought about where he was going to stay, but he had enough money to just get somewhere to sleep before he could get a job.

The train took him to a different part of the city, deep into Paris, where he wound up on a street corner. He dragged his suitcase behind him down the street, looking all around for somewhere to rest. It was early morning, now, and he eventually found a small diner. Hoping he could get breakfast, Rene stopped there.

However, when he entered the establishment, an older woman in a fur coat spotted him, and he took his arm.

“What’s a young boy like you doing here by yourself?” she spoke very sweetly to him, yet still maintained a vice-like grip on his arm. “You seem far from home,”

Rene swallowed, tensing up. “I…I…” he took a breath. “I’m just here to get breakfast,”

“Mm,” the woman nodded in understanding. “Well, if you join my friends and me, we would pay for your food,”

“Really?” Rene perked up at the idea, but he was still wary of such an offer.

The woman went on. “But we would need a favor from you. Are you willing?”

Rene was about to just blindly agree, but he knew better. He cleared his throat. “What’s the favor, ma’am?”

“Oh, do not concern yourself with such a thing,” she waved him off. “You may call me Miss Tilda. Now, come along—there is a seat for you at our table,”

Sure enough, there was an empty seat at a table filled with sharply dressed men. They watched Rene silently as he approached as if they were taking in every small detail about him. He wanted to turn around and run away, but there was hardly any time for that as Miss Tilda guided him to sit at the table.

“Men,” she began. “I have found a young boy. Tell them your name, child,”

Rene felt himself break into a cold sweat. “Um…R-Rene,”

“Rene?” a large, suited man snorted. “What are you doing out of daycare, little boy?”

“I’m…seventeen,” Rene defended, his voice quivering.

“Yeah?” a taller, skinnier man leaned over the table. “I joined when I was eleven, and by the time I was your age I had already killed four men!”

Rene felt his heart hammering fast: what had he just gotten into?

“We don’t want to scare him off, Garner!” Miss Tilda snapped at the man, before turning her attention back to Rene. “Now, after breakfast, you will need to complete your first task. It requires you to act—can you do that?”

Rene tried to think of how to answer properly. “I…yes, I-I can act. I was in Romeo and Juliet in school—”

“Oh, of course, he was,” a red-haired man groaned. “You just had to get us a theatre kid, didn’t you, Tilda?”

“Please,” Tilda snorted. “That means he has experience. Come, now—our waitress is coming. Let us eat, shall we?”

After breakfast, the group drove off to a hotel, where they gave Rene a ‘script’: he was supposed to be a lost delivery boy, and he had to approach an older wealthy couple known as the Gerards with a request for directions to the fourth floor. Miss Tilda gave him a uniform and a crate filled with oranges, and then she pushed him into the hotel lobby.

Rene felt his hands shaking as he gipped the crate, but he tried to remember the exercises his stage director had taught him in school: breath, relax, let the character drop in. This wasn’t too different from playing a character on stage, right? He just had to pretend to be a lost delivery boy…that couldn’t be too hard. He tried not to think about why he was supposed to do this, and he also tried to ignore the fact that the men in suits were longer around him.

The Gerards passed into the lobby, wearing fine clothing and chatting as they dragged along their suitcases. Rene took a deep breath: showtime, he thought.

“Excuse me?” he spoke in a higher register, making himself sound younger and more innocent. “Excuse me, do you know where the fourth floor is?”

Mr. Gerard raised an eyebrow at him. “What, you can’t ask the staff? Don’t you work here?”

“Yes,” Rene hadn’t anticipated this question, so he tried to come up with something. “Yes, b-but I just started here, and they will not speak to me, and I know your room was on the fourth floor, so—”

“We were on the third floor,” Mrs. Gerard seemed to catch wind, and she turned to tug on her husband. “Pierre—”

Before anyone could do anything else, Miss Tilda was there, and she came and stood behind Mr. Gerard. “Sir,” she began, pressing something Rene couldn’t see into his back. “Come with us, and we will make this as quick as possible,”

One thing Rene would never forget was the look of fear in their faces when they were led outside by Tilda, and he also recalled later that he never knew what had happened to them. He didn’t even know what this was for—but that was the least of his worries when two suited men grabbed him and dragged him out the back wordlessly.

“You almost ruined that for us!” barked Garner once they were outside, and he shoved Rene up against the dumpster. “Oh, I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Tilda about you!”

“Garner, let the kid go,” sighed the other man, who Rene knew as Jacques. “He’s just an idiot, okay? We got what we wanted out of him,”

Garner wasn’t backing down, though, and he pulled out a knife from his coat pocket. It was a strange knife Rene had never seen before—it seemed to fold up, and it had handles so Garner could grip it properly.

“I should just carve you up and leave you here,” Garner hissed, a wild look in his eyes. “You don’t have a family; you don’t have anyone—who will miss you? Nobody!”

“Garner!” Jacques protested, yet made no move to help.

Rene’s heart was pounding in his eyes, and he was hyperventilating. Yet along with the fear, a feeling of rage welled up in him as Garner spoke, and it boiled over when the man turned to glare at Jacques.

“Shut up!” Garner snapped. “This little coward is going to learn today—”

Before Garner even had time to register what happened, Rene yanked the knife from his hand and plunged it into the back of his neck. Garner let out a yell and stumbled backward, but Rene wasn’t finished. In his frenzied anger, he attacked again, this time stabbing the knife directly into Garner’s chest and dragging it up to his throat, cleanly slicing him up. Blood poured like a river—Rene had never seen so much blood in his life, and it scared him.

He gasped, dropping the knife, watching in horror as Garner wheezed desperately and dropped to the ground in a pool of his blood. Garner writhed around to no avail, his chest heaving, choking sounds punching their way out of his throat until his movements stilled, and he fell silent. Rene didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead.

Rene caught his breath, and he braced himself, expecting Jacques to come after him next and kill him. However, Jacques just stared at him in silence, his eyes trailing from the dead body to Rene’s bewildered face. Jacques smiled after a moment, nodding at him.

“Good job,” he praised, taking a step forward. “How do you feel?”

Rene felt a flurry of emotions. He felt strangely proud over what he had done, yet at the same time, he was still terrified. But, most of all, he felt nauseous as he stared at the blood.

“Sick,” Rene mumbled, still shaking.

Jacques chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’ll go away. Here,” he knelt, picking up the knife and placing it in Rene’s hand. “This is yours, now—have you ever seen a butterfly knife?”

Rene just shook his head at he stared at the knife. “It’s still bloody…”

“That’s all right, I can show you how to wash it,” assured Jacques, taking Rene’s arm and leading him away from the sordid scene. “Also, you’ll need a suit. I can get you to a tailor tomorrow,”

“Uh-huh,” Rene nodded, turning up to look at Jacques’s face. “Why…why are you helping me?”

Jacques shrugged. “I never liked Garner. But, if I’m being more honest, it’s really because I think you have potential,” he met Rene’s eyes. “But you just need someone to teach you how to use it,”

“Okay…” Rene agreed quietly, watching as the knife glinted in his hands.

No one paid attention to the blood on their clothes as they walked down the street together, but unbeknownst to them, one tourist was watching from a rented car. She blew a puff of cigarette smoke, observing the way the boy traveled down the street with his new mentor, and then she drove away.


	3. One Small Stone (Sniper/Lawrence Mundy)

“The year is 1955, the month is September, and the day is the seventeenth…”

This was what the class repeated in unison every day before class began. Before this, they would recite their morning prayers, once again in unison. This was their daily routine, and Lawrence had become accustomed to it ever since his parents sent him to this Catholic school.

His family wasn’t as religious as many of the others who attended the school. They didn’t attend mass regularly, they only prayed before meals on occasion, but Mrs. Mundy had a portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging above her and her husband’s bed, and Lawrence would lay there for hours sometimes just staring at it. She was so young, and it made him wonder what it was like having the Son of God as a child at a young age. No one ever really spoke about that; there were a lot of things in the Bible that were strange to him, and yet they were things nobody spoke about.

He wasn’t the type of boy to question his teachers, though. He was quiet, he did his homework, and he had a small circle of friends who were just like him. It seemed like an average childhood, but that was fine because he liked the routine.

Yet there was something different about this day. The school year had just started recently, and the boys had a new teacher named Miss Simon, and they did not like her at all.

Lawrence had been feeling more chatty than usual on the first day, so he had been telling his friends about how his dog caught a giant frog in her mouth over the weekend and how exciting that had been to see, when all of the sudden he noticed the classroom had gone eerily quiet halfway through his tale. He looked up, seeing Miss Simon looming over him.

“Mr. Mundy,” she began, staring down at him coldly. “Do you think you’d like to keep sharing your story with the class? Maybe I should let you teach today,”

Lawrence felt himself shrink into his seat, and his face reddened with embarrassment. He could hear his classmates giggling, and he just wanted to disappear. He couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day, and when he got home the first thing he did was hide in his room.

He never told his parents, though. Lawrence had been taught to respect authority—he knew that if he’d told his parents about the incident, he’d probably just get punished for talking over a teacher in class.

Still, no matter what he did, Lawrence had found himself on Miss Simon’s radar. She didn’t care for him, for whatever reason, and he always felt like he was doing something wrong. She’d scold him for doodling on his paper, she’d scold him for his sloppy handwriting, and even when he walked in the hallway, she’d yell at him for walking too fast. He felt singled out, but what made it so much worse was how she treated his friends.

She was kind to his friends. She laughed with them, got on their level, spoke gently to them, and they all loved her. They couldn’t understand why Lawrence didn’t like her—they would say, “Maybe you should be nicer to her!”

“But I am!” Lawrence wanted to scream. “She just hates me!”

The weeks passed. Lawrence tried his hardest to get on Miss Simon’s good side, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t stand him, and he didn’t know why. He prayed to God for help, but even that seemed to go unheard.

And then it happened. On December 14th, right before Christmas break, Lawrence was helping a friend with some math equations. Dalton, his friend, was very stressed out over the work, and because Lawrence was better at it, he decided to help him.

As he hunched over the desk, scrawling numbers on the paper, Miss Simon barked at the boys, “We’re going to have reading time! Come over here, now,”

Dalton got up and shuffled away quickly, though he was very agitated about the math problems. Lawrence, however, didn’t get up right away. He began to put away his pencils into their case.

“Lawrence Mundy, did you hear me!?” Miss Simon snapped, raising her voice.

“Yeah,” Lawrence replied hastily, standing up quickly. “I’m coming, okay?”

Perhaps Lawrence spoke a bit too harshly, or he just wasn’t polite enough for Miss Simon’s liking. Whatever the case, when he got up from the desk and turned around, Miss Simon was right there, and she grabbed Lawrence by the shoulder strong enough to knock the wind out of him.

“Get in the corner,” she hissed, grabbing the scruff of his neck as if he was a kitten and dragging him towards the corner.

Lawrence didn’t understand why this was happening, and he started to protest. “But-but why!?”

“Don’t ‘why’, me!” she shoved him into the corner, turning him around so he was facing it. “Stay there! Stay there and pray to God for forgiveness! We’ll all pray for you,” she turned to the class. “Won’t we?”

The class rumbled in agreement, murmuring amongst themselves. Lawrence began to sob, and he pressed further into the corner, praying he would just disappear. He felt like everyone hated him: his class, his teacher, probably even his parents if Miss Simon called them (which she likely would—she always called home to parents when students misbehaved). The worst part was, though, that Lawrence didn’t even really know what had provoked this.

He cried for probably the whole day. His friends avoided him, he got stares from other students, and he could hear everyone whispering about him. Things weren’t much better when he got home, as Miss Simon had called his parents and told them that he’d been very rude to her.

“Dear, what’s the matter?” his mother sat with him after dinner, stroking his hair. “Why did you speak that way to Miss Simon? That isn’t like you at all,”

Lawrence sniffed, the tears rolling down his cheek. “She hates me,” he whimpered, pressing into his mother for comfort.

“Oh, now,” she rubbed his back tenderly. “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you…after all, she said she would pray for you,”

The words punched Lawrence in the gut, and they made him angry. He didn’t know why, but he felt some new, bitter type of anger building up in him. It was foreign, but he welcomed it.

That night, as Lawrence laid in bed, he recalled the story of David and Goliath: how Goliath was a giant who crushed everything in his path, and how David had taken him out with only one stone and a sling. Lawrence had a sling, it was in his closet, and he had stones, too. He’d always thought the story didn’t make any sense, for how would that work? A stone couldn’t take out a giant…could it?

There was only one way to find out.

The next morning, the bus dropped Lawrence off at the usual time. It was the day before Christmas break.

He walked up to the front of the building, but instead of taking his usual route to his classroom he ducked inside of the supply closet. Lawrence had heard some talk from the other students of an opening in the ceiling, one that could access the air ducts, and the boys would often use it to spy on teachers in the teacher’s lounge. Sure enough, Lawrence found it, and he climbed into the opening and began his journey through the ceiling.

He found Miss Simon in the lounge by herself, and she took notes on her notepad about something while she listened to the radio. She was a bigger woman, but Lawrence felt taller than her for the first time as he loomed above her in the ceiling.

Carefully, so carefully, he moved the grate out of its spot (to his delight, it wasn’t screwed into the duct with anything) and he placed the stone in the sling. Miss Simon had no idea—she didn’t even know he was there, and that he was aiming straight at her head.

Thunk.

It was loud, and it startled Lawrence a bit. Miss Simon barely reacted; she didn’t even make a noise. She just touched the back of her head, saw the blood, and stood up to head for the door. Yet didn’t make it there, and she collapsed within seconds, bringing down the cabinet with her as she tried to grab it for support.

Lawrence watched, in awe of what he’d just done. But he barely had time to think, as he heard the door opening, and he quickly scrambled back towards where he’d come from to make his escape.

Miss Simon didn’t show up to class. The boys were all very confused, but the one who knew what happened was Lawrence, and he didn’t dare say a word. Eventually, a substitute showed up, and all she said was that Miss Simon wasn’t feeling well and had to go home.

As Lawrence rode home on the bus, he felt a new feeling of invigoration and pride. It was wrong, he told himself, since Jesus would never approve. But…he felt strong. He felt like he could do anything, now. He didn’t regret this at all.

He was the last one on the bus when it arrived at his stop. When he made his move to leave, the bus driver stopped him.

“Have a merry Christmas, Lawrence,” she told him.

Lawrence paused. He hadn’t told her his name…maybe she knew his mother. But she spoke in a different accent, which was quite unusual. He just nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. You too,”

As the bus doors closed and Lawrence headed for his house, the driver watched silently, her golden eyes reflecting off the door’s glass.

She knew what happened today would send him down the path she was hoping for.


	4. Joy (Demoman/Tavish Finnegan DeGroot)

Any nun at the Arms of Love Orphan Home would describe Tavish as a happy child. It was all over his record that he always in a good mood, that he loved to smile and laugh and joke with the other children.

“Ay, he wis such a sweet child,” Sister Loreena, a nun who knew him most of his childhood, would sigh many years later. “He loved tae make the other children laugh, that’s whit A remember most aboot him…”

What Loreena conveniently seemed to forget, though, was that he had been at the same orphanage twice in his life. First, as a newborn baby, one who the nuns doted over until he was eventually adopted (of course he was adopted – he was beautiful, after all), but six years later he was promptly returned to the same place. Why? Because, allegedly, he was the reason his adoptive parents were now dead.

He had a very strange obsession with explosives, and the nuns were aware of this but they were very concerned. When they banned him from going to the shops to buy his own, he just began making them, and no matter how hard the nuns prayed for him he never stopped.  
The other children didn’t seem terribly concerned with the explosives, and many of them liked to watch him stuff dynamite into the dirt and set it off, blowing chunks of the earth everywhere while they all cheered.

Yet, it was the start of the school year when things began to change. Tavish was enrolled in the education program taught right there at the orphanage, and it was there that a new nun was assigned to teach the children. She looked young, much younger than any of the other nuns, and she went by the name of Sister Joy.

Joy entered the room, setting down her bag and writing her name with chalk on the board. “Hello, children,” she began, and she spoke in a strange accent they had never heard before. “My name is Sister Joy,”

“Hello, Sister Joy!” the children greeted in unison, just as they had been taught.

She seemed a little startled by the loud hello, but she shook it off and pinned up a piece of paper to the chalkboard. “This is your schedule, and you are expected to follow it every day unless told otherwise. Now, first, we will begin with devotions -”

A girl in the back of the room suddenly gasped. “Tavish!” and that was all the warning there was before a jar of paint came tumbling down from the shelf above and burst open, painting the carpet blue.

Joy glanced up, and that was when her eyes met Tavish’s frightened face. He’d leaned a bit too far back in his chair and disturbed the shelves sitting behind him in the back – it was clearly a mistake, and while Joy was not happy about it she was also glad that he didn’t hurt himself.

“Please clean that up,” Joy sighed, pointing to the roll of paper towels sitting in the back.

Tavish nodded quickly, jumping up and grabbing the towels and tearing a piece off. He didn’t want to disappoint, the nuns here already did not trust him with any explosive. As Joy began to teach, Tavish got on his hands and knees and cleaned the paint off of the floor, glancing up to watch her as she gave the first lesson of the day.  
After the day ended, Tavish approached Joy at her desk, much to her surprise.

“Sister Joy?” he began meekly, hovering over her desk with a look of earnest in his eyes. “I’m sorry I knocked ower the paint, it happened accidentally,” before Joy could even reply, he kept talking. “I wonae dae it again!”

Joy laid down her pen, looking him over for a moment – he was tall for a seven-year-old, with thick hair on his head and large round eyes. “That’s all right, Tavish,” she assured him. “It’s washable paint, anyway, and I am very glad you were so eager to clean it,” she cleared her throat. “I heard from the other sisters that you like to make explosions?”

He nodded. “Ay, ma'am,”

“You like to be reckless, yes?”

“Ay, ma'am,”

“Well,” she sat up a little taller, making eye contact with him. “Would you like an opportunity to do something constructive for a change?”

Tavish looked away for a moment. The word ‘constructive’ made him think of construction workers, so did she mean building? “I like makin’ things sometimes,” he replied, nodding.

Joy smiled a little. “Well, I’m sure you do. But, would you like to help me around my office sometimes? I could do with a little extra help, and you could do with the experience,”

“Oh,” Tavish thought about it. “Is that fun?”

She shrugged. “It could be. How about we start tomorrow afternoon, yes?”

Tavish considered it before he nodded in agreement. “Okay, I can help ye. I can put things together!”

“Wonderful,” Joy smiled again, nodding. “I will see you then, Tavish,”

Sure enough, he arrived at her office the following afternoon, ready to help with whatever Joy needed him to do. She really admired his enthusiasm, most of the children wouldn’t have been as eager to help out as he was.

“So, Tavish,” Joy began, watching as he cut out stacks of worksheets with the scissors, making sure he didn’t hurt himself. “When did you begin using your explosives?”  
Tavish shrugged, paying extra attention to the corners of each paper. “I dinnae really remember. I like to play with them and I was gonna explode Nessie at my old house,”

Joy’s brows furrowed. “Nessie? Do you mean the Loch Ness Monster?”

“Shh!” Tavish hissed, whirling around and pressing a finger his lips. “Dinnae say her name! She’ll hear ye!”

Joy blinked, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “All right, all right. Who is Fergus?”

Tavish went back to the papers. “Fergus is ma’ old dad,” his voice was a little quieter. “He died, an’ so did my old mum,”

“Oh…” Joy’s heart sank. The other nuns had told her beforehand about this. “I see,” she sat beside him, watching him cut the papers some more. “Well…you have all of us, now,”

Tavish still didn’t look up. “The sisters says Jesus forgives me,”

“That’s true,” Joy nodded, folding her hands on her lap. “Anyway, it’s um…it’s all in the past,”

Tavish finally glanced up, and he suddenly got an odd feeling about Sister Joy. “How come yer not old?” he wanted to know, squinting.

Joy seemed confused by the question. “What do you mean? Not all nuns are old ladies,”

“Really?” Tavish blinked in surprise. “I thought they were all old maids…”

“Ah,” Joy smiled, amused, shaking her head. “No, no…and I’m not that young, I’m…”

Something out the window caught her attention, and her face fell. Tavish turned around, trying to see what she was seeing. “What?”

Joy suddenly grabbed him, yanking him out of the chair and bringing him down to the floor. “Get down!” she exclaimed, her voice full of panic, and it was then that the loud sounds came.  
Tavish thought they sounded like firecrackers, but he had never seen someone so scared over firecrackers. “What is it?” he asked, feeling very anxious as he felt Joy trembling in fear against him.  
After a moment, Joy sat up, still holding Tavish close to her, and the sound of tires could be heard skidding away. She sat nothing for a long time, her lips parted slightly as she silently tallied the damage done to the windows.

“What happened?” Tavish stared up at her, brows knitted in fear. “What broke the windows?”

Joy did not look at him, and she whispered to no one in particular, “God, he found me…”

Just then, the door opened, and Sister Loreena came rushing in. “What was all the noise?” she nearly squealed, pulling Tavish away from the window. “Joy, what happened!?”

Joy did not answer, and she stood up, quietly leaving the room without another word.

Tavish tried to get a better look at the bullet holes in the office window, but Loreena pulled him away. “Come away, child, ye shouldnae touch the broken glass!”

The incident was never brought up again, and the window ended up being replaced. Tavish never really forgot about the event, but he continued to help Sister Joy with various odd jobs. She seemed kind and charming in a way most of the nuns weren’t, and it wasn’t long before he began to trust her completely. He got called a 'teacher’s pet’ by the other boys, but he didn’t care – if he was lucky, maybe Sister Joy could be his new mother! Wouldn’t that be something?

But a month later, during recess, Tavish sat by the woods with his friends, and they all began to gossip about the teachers, as they often did.

“Ye know what I heard?” began Micha, a small wiry boy with wide-rimmed glasses. “I heard Sister Joy isn’t really a nun!”

Tavish shook his head, making a face. “No, she’s a nun! She’s just not old like the other nuns! You’re wrong, Micha,”

“No, no!” chimed in Ramona, tall for her age but still just the same size as Tavish. “It’s true! Kenny says he heard Sister Mary talkin’ an’ she said Sister Joy was 'impure’!”

“Impure?” Tavish repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Not holy,” Micha explained. “It means she isn’t a nun!”

This thought didn’t sit right with Tavish at all, although he wasn’t sure why. What did 'impure’ mean? If she wasn’t a nun, then what was she?  
He decided to ask her himself. When he went to visit her that afternoon to help sort her cabinets out, he asked her right up front: “Sister Joy, are you impure?”

Joy nearly dropped the stacks of papers she was carrying. “Am I…am I what?”

“Impure,” Tavish began to explain. “My friends said you were impure and that you weren’t really a nun,”

Joy went quiet before she turned around and knelt to Tavish’s height. “Tavish,” she began. “Everything is rather…complicated at the moment. I can’t explain everything, but…” she swallowed. “All I will tell you is that once everything is sorted out, I will have to leave,”

“Leave!?” Tavish was flabbergasted, and he wrapped his arms around her neck. “But you can’t go!”

“I will have to,” Joy took his chin into her hand, and she kissed his forehead. “I wish I could stay, but that’s not God’s plan,”

Tavish sniffed, blinking up at her. “Can…can I go with you?”

Joy smiled sadly, and she shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You have to stay here,”

“But I want to go with you,” he stared at the floor, pouting, tears welling in his eyes. “Maybe you could be my new mum…”

Joy fell silent, and after a moment, she took Tavish’s hand and squeezed it. “That can’t happen, unfortunately,” she spoke very seriously to him, yet her eyes were full of warmth. “But, I want you to know that if my baby is a boy, I hope he’s just like you,”

There was a pause. Tavish looked up, realizing what she had said. “Baby…?”

She placed his hand over her stomach, which was hidden beneath her robe, but he felt right away that it was firm. He stared in surprise, blinking. “You’re going to have a baby?”

“You must not tell the other children, whatever you do,” she lowered her voice, speaking in a hushed whisper. “This must be kept a secret,”

Tavish felt downright shocked. Were nuns allowed to have babies? He knew they couldn’t get married, so how would she have a baby? Now that he was so close to Sister Joy, he began to notice other details about her: her ears had holes in them, but no earrings, she had a very faint scar on her top lip, and perhaps the strangest of all was the marks on her wrists he’d noticed when she held his hand. Not to mention that when he saw her face up close, he realized she was not as young as he’d thought she was. She was already starting to look older…did she always have so many wrinkles?

Still, Tavish told no one. He kept it in, never saying a word, but as the months progressed Sister Joy’s secret pregnancy was becoming more and more noticeable. The other children noticed, but they didn’t suspect that she was pregnant: they just giggled behind her back about her being 'fat’. Only Tavish knew the truth.

And then came that fateful winter night.

During a choir concert in the chapel, Tavish sang right along with the other children, just as he always did, when he noticed that Sister Joy was looking on the window again. She was in the audience, but he could clearly see her watching some lights going by through the stained glass.

When the song ended, the children were dismissed, and Tavish watched as Joy opened the door and slipped out quickly, not saying a word.

“Sister Joy?” Tavish followed after her, not even bothering to put on his jacket as he stepped out into the snow. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t seem to hear him, and she stood by the side of the road, where a car was parked.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she spoke harshly to whoever was in the driver’s side, her fists clenched in anger. “I don’t need this right now,”

Tavish stopped, watching the altercation from a safe distance. He caught a glimpse of who was driving the car: a large, scarred man, clad in a suit with a cigarette in his lips.

“Shut up and get in the car, Helen,” he growled, removing the cigarette.

Joy took a step back, shaking her head. “No. You don’t control me anymore,”

He turned his huge form towards her, and something shiny glinted in his hand. “I said,” he presented the gun, glaring into her eyes. “Get in the car, and take off all that shit,”

Tavish gasped, freezing up. His heart pounded – what could he do? He had never seen anything like this before, and he was just a boy.

Joy took another step back, gritting her teeth. “Don’t do this, Issac,”

Issac pursed his lips together. “Do the right thing, and get in the car,” when she didn’t move, he sighed. “I’ll count to three…one,”

Tavish looked around frantically, feeling dizzy. He looked towards the warm glow of the church, suddenly recalling that there was something very important in his coat pocket.

“Two…”

In a flurry, Tavish rushed to the church doors, scrambling for the coat rack and nearly ripping down his coat. He grabbed the homemade grenade he’d hidden from the nuns earlier that morning, and he rushed back out into the snow.

“Three!”

Issac aimed the gun, but before he could do anything, a young boy came rushing up with a strange-looking object in his hand.

“Tavish!” Joy exclaimed, shrieking and attempting to pull him back.

The last thing Issac ever saw was the young boy tearing a pin out of the object before he threw it into the open window.

Joy fell right on her back, holding Tavish as close to her body as possible, trying to shield him for flying debris as the car exploded, sending bits of metal everywhere.  
The noise died down, and Joy sat up slowly, still holding Tavish close to her. As she silently stared at all of the damage done, at the wrecked car and the remains of the man who had antagonized her, Tavish shifted in her arms.

“Ow,” he whimpered, wriggling.

Joy glanced down, pulling him away to look at him. “A-are you all right? I – oh, no!” she gasped, realizing that she hadn’t managed to protect him from all the flying debris.

“What?” he tried to blink, but something wasn’t quite right with his vision. He touched his left eye, feeling at it. “W-what happened to my eye?”

What happened next was a blur. Joy screamed for an ambulance, and the other nuns were surrounding him and whispering prayers over him as he was rushed to the hospital. He wondered if he was dying, but whenever he asked no one seemed to answer.

His last memory of Joy was her hovering over him, tears in her eyes as she brushed his cheek. She was out of her robes, and for the first time, he saw her long black hair framing her face. She seemed youthful again as she stroked his hair, and her eyes glinted as she watched his face.

“May God be with you, Tavish,” she whispered. “Thank you, for what you’ve done. This will not be forgotten,”

He never saw her again, and the nuns never said where she went.

The following events are debatable, but Tavish claims to this day that they happened.

At just seven years old, Tavish was already ready to give up on life, and he suddenly felt hopeless and scared. He cried in the darkness, alone and terrified, and he sobbed into the dark, “I dinnae wanna be here anymore! I wanna go home! I just wanna go home!”

He choked on his sobs in the dark, his shoulders quivering when suddenly someone joined him.

“You must rise, Tavish,” a gentle voice whispered to him. A green glow appeared beside him, though he couldn’t see a face.

“But Joy left…” he sniffed. “Joy is gone,”

“She will be all right,” the voice assured. “But you must rise. If you don’t, you will never meet your family,”

“What family?” Tavish looked up, his eyes unable to adjust to the glow. “I dinnae have a family,”

A pair of arms held him, and he felt a loving warmth wash over him. “You do,” the voice assured. “And you have friends waiting for you – and they will love what you do. But, you must rise,”

So he rose, and he continued.

After all was said and done, Tavish sat alone in his bedroom, hugging his knees as he stared out of the window. He still had pain in some places, and now he only had one eye. Yet, despite everything, he was alive.

Someone knocked on his door. “Tavish?” Sister Loreena poked her head in the doorway. “Tavish, darling, you have visitors,”

Tavish stood up obediently, and he followed Loreena down the stairs to the meeting area. There stood a man and a woman, both watching Tavish anxiously as he entered the room.

He paused, taking a look at both of them for a good while, before he asked, “Are you me new mum and dad?”

The woman let out a sob, and she fell to her knees, pulling Tavish in her arms and holding him close. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, beginning to weep, rocking him as she held him.

Tavish blinked, very confused. He didn’t know these people at all…

The man knelt beside the two, unfurling a newspaper with the headline, Notorious Gangster Dead in Car Explosion.

“We have of explainin’ tae do, dear boy,” the man began, placing his free hand on Tavish’s shoulder.


	5. Rainbow (Pyro/Tamsin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: the day Pyro fell in love with fire.

It was an August morning like any other for young Tamsin.

They woke up to the sound of the birds outside the window, and to the sunlight shining on the stuffed animals which sat beside them in bed. Tamsin smiled, sitting up, their long hair falling around their shoulders. They fiddled with it in their hands, before sliding off of the bed and onto the floor.

Tamsin padded to their mother’s room, seeing she was still in bed, and they crawled up into bed with her and snuggled up beside her, kissing her cheek with a hum. She chuckled, rolling over to look up at her child.

“Good morning, Tamsin,” she smiled, and she stroked the long hair draping over their shoulders. “I think your hair needs brushing, little one,”

Tamsin just giggled, sliding out of the bed and bouncing away to the kitchen, their mother following just moments later.

Tamsin’s mother made breakfast, and afterwards they sat in front of the television while Tamsin had their hair brushed out and then braided. It was then that the nanny showed up, ready to watch Tamsin for the day.

“Hello, again, Tamsin!” Miss Logan greeted when she walked through the door, and she paused to ruffle Tamsin’s hair. “Your hair looks so pretty today. Did your mommy braid it?”

Tamsin just nodded, showing off the braid with a giggle. Their mother came down the stairs, wearing work clothes and fresh makeup, and she slung her purse over her shoulder.

“Good morning, Donna,” she smiled Miss Logan, slipping on a pair of heels. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m all right, Helen,” Miss Logan assured. “How is work? Have you got more business trips coming up?”

Helen shook her head. “Not at the moment, no. Thank goodness,” she paused to stroke Tamsin’s hair sweetly. “But Tamsin loves it when you’re here,”

Tamsin grinned in response. This was true, they loved it when Miss Logan visited, but truth be told, they preferred their mother’s presence more.

Helen knelt down, kissing Tamsin’s forehead. “I will be back before dinner, my Tamsin. I promise,”

Tamsin kissed back, humming out a goodbye as their mother rose back up and gathered the rest of her things before leaving.

Once Helen had left, Miss Logan sat on the sofa to watch the television while knitting and Tamsin went into the office to play. It was a tiny office, and it had once been their nursery when they were a baby, but ten years earlier it had been renovated once Helen decided she wanted Tamsin’s room to be closer to hers. Tamsin did not ever remember sleeping in the office, but they liked spending time there. They laid down on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling, and then the shapes would appear.

This was part of their day: they would lay on the carpet and wait, and shapes and colors would begin to flow above their head. They saw rainbows, stars, animals running in circles, bright bursts of colors – such beautiful visions, yet when Tamsin would reach out to touch them they would vanish. They couldn’t understand why, since the lovely images looked so beautiful to touch and they could almost smell them. Because they’d learned they were not able to feel the colors or the animals, they would just lay back and watch them spin over their head, getting lost in the waves and the feelings and the smells.

It was during this time, on this certain day, as Tamsin hallucinated vividly in their former nursery, that the darkness began to creep in. Tamsin did not notice it, but the darkness took the form of two men. They walked onto the front porch, dressed from head to toe in black, and looked in through the window.

Miss Logan paused her knitting when she saw their shapes, and she turned around to look, but one of the men shot through the window.

The glass shattered, the shot rang out, and Miss Logan barely had any time to cry out or make any sound before the bullet met her body, striking her and killing her instantly. She didn’t even know what had hit her.

The sound yanked Tamsin out of their mind, and they sat up in a panic, looking towards the living room.

The door opened after a few minutes, and the men walked in, taking a look at Miss Logan’s slumped-over body.

“Aw, shit,” growled one of the men. “We got the wrong lady!”

“Are you for real!?” the other man knelt down to get a closer look. “You mean that’s not Helen?”

“Hell no, it’s not Helen!” The first man groaned, huffing out a sigh. “I think that’s her maid or something…shit, Tony, what the fuck?”

Tony put his hands up defensively. “Sorry, Ron! All older bitches look the same, I swear!”

Ron sighed again, standing up. “Well, I guess we’ll have to get her out of here, and…” he trailed off, staring ahead and spotting Tamsin in the next room. “…Aw, fuck,”

“What?” Tony glanced up.

“Her kid is here!” Ron suddenly advanced towards Tamsin, and Tamsin let out a shriek of terror before darting under the desk.

Ron just reached beneath the desk and yanked Tamsin out, keeping a vice-like grip on their small arm. “Got ‘em!”

Tony stepped over Miss Logan’s body to get a better look. “Geez, that’s Helen’s kid? Ugly motherfucker…”

Tamsin whimpered, trying to squirm away, but Ron wouldn’t allow it. “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me. Hey, kid,” he roughly turned Tamsin’s face upwards. “Are you a boy or a girl? I can’t tell,”

Tamsin began to sob, wriggling futilely, tears rolling down their cheeks, and Ron huffed. “We’re gonna have to take out the little bastard. Here,” he pulled out his gun. “I can do that,”

“Wait,” Tony stopped him, getting an idea. “How about we use the kid as bait? We can call Helen, and get her to come here for her hellspawn, and then we’ll shoot her!”

Ron rubbed his chin in thought, and he nodded after a moment. “Yeah, sure! Did you get the bitch’s number? I think the boss gave it to us,”

“I do,” Tony replied. “Just tie the kid up and put them away, okay?”

Ron obeyed, using rope from his bag to bind Tamsin’s wrists before dragging them to the upstairs bedroom, where he shut them inside.

“Remember, kid,” Ron snarked just before he left Tamsin alone. “If you call for help, or scream, or do anything, we’ll kill you,”

The door slammed, and Tamsin began to sob, sitting on the edge of their mother’s bed. They could feel their hands shaking with terror – were they really going to kill their mother? They’d already shot Miss Logan, which meant they could shoot anyone!

Tamsin curled up on the bed and wept bitterly, curling into a fetal position and wishing none of this had ever happened. The sheets smelled like Helen’s perfume, and they wanted nothing more than to be held by her.

It was then that the colors returned. They crept in slowly, bit by bit, and Tamsin felt them wrap around their arms and body, holding them close. It was comforting, warm, and for the first time, Tamsin felt how soft they were.

They watched as the colors trickled away, yet they swept towards the dresser, where they lingered by something resting there. Tamsin stood up, sniffling as they went to see what the colors were showing them, and there they saw their mother’s nail file.

Tamsin grabbed the file, trying to work with it the best they could with their hands bound, and little by little they managed to slice a bit of the rope. It was just enough to undo the knot, and Tamsin wriggled their hands out of the bounds, finally free.

The colors did not leave, though: next, they slid towards one of the drawers, remaining there but flashing even brighter, as if beckoning Tamsin. Still, Tamsin obeyed their call, opening the drawer.

There, among scarves and various pieces of clothing sat two items: a bottle of hairspray and one of their mother’s lighters. Tamsin looked towards the door, realizing that Ron had never locked it, and they suddenly knew what they had to do.

Down in the kitchen, Tony had managed to call Helen at her office.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Helen wanted to know over the other end of the phone. “How did you even get this number?”

“It doesn’t matter who we are,” Tony tried to sound as menacing as possible. “Look, bitch: we have your kid, and if you don’t come here right away, we’re gonna shoot the little fucker. Got it?”

Helen’s voice filled with fury, and it got an octave lower. “Don’t you dare. You lay a hand on my child, and you will pay dearly for it,”

“How about you get over here, then?” Tony hung up, turning to Ron. “Oh, she is pissed! You should hear her,”

Before Ron could answer, he felt something splatter on his clothes. Confused, he turned around, seeing that Tamsin had escaped and appeared to be pouring olive oil all over the floors and on the men’s’ clothing.

Ron sprang into action, rushing at Tamsin. “Oh, you stupid little shit! I’m gonna fucking - !” he yelled, slipping on the olive oil as Tamsin grabbed something from the table.

Tony immediately noticed what Tamsin held in their hands, and he shouted out a warning. “Ron, the kid’s got a - !”

Tamsin held up the homemade flamethrower, not blinking once as they pushed down on the nozzle and sprayed flames all over the kitchen. The oil attracted the fire and it spread rapidly and blossomed all over the house with a loud bang.

It was terrifying, monstrous, chaotic, and yet: it was the most beautiful thing Tamsin had ever seen. They stood there for a moment, feeling the heat, watching the flames billow, and they wanted to stand there and feel all of it for as long as they could. But, something in them said 'run’, so they did.

They ran out of the front door and down the steps, the fire quickly engulfing the house behind them, and they soon collapsed onto the sidewalk. Obviously, the fire caught the attention of the neighborhood, and within moments the fire department showed up.

As Tamsin was placed within the fire truck, they watched the firemen smother the flames, and it hurt them to see. Silently, they thanked the fire for saving their mother, and for snuffing out the men who did great harm.

Helen’s car came screeching up, and she leaped out, yelling out Tamsin’s name only to be held back by a police officer.

Tamsin saw their mother through the window, and they ran out to meet her. “Mama!” they shouted, reaching up, and Helen snatched them up within seconds.

“Tamsin!” Helen almost sobbed, holding her child close, her whole body shaking. “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord…” she kissed their face all over, and she asked hastily, “What did those men do? Did they hurt you?”

Tamsin shook their head, and they pointed to the house as the last of the flames were extinguished. Helen blinked, realizing. “Tamsin…did you do this?”

Tamsin nodded, looking away. After a moment, they admitted softly, “I used fire to burn up bad men,”

What happened next was a blur, but Tamsin vaguely recalled being admitted to the hospital. They weren’t quite sure why they were there, but they had a comfortable bed and the nurses gave them a little stuffed unicorn to play with.

As they lay in the bed, swinging around their new little friend, they could hear their mother talking to someone on the phone in the other room.

“It’s my child, Tamsin,” Helen was saying. “Listen – something happened, and…and I need to meet with you to discuss it. I believe Tamsin may be what you’re looking for,”

Tamsin hardly paid any attention: they just watched the rainbows swirl, and finally, they could reach out and touch them, and they didn’t vanish.


	6. Lullaby (Scout/Jeremy Nichols)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: the first time Scout used a bat for something other than baseball.

In Jeremy’s memory, things were much simpler when he was a child.

Although he didn’t get along with his older brothers on account of them being so much older, he was inseparable with the three brothers closest in age to him— Jimmy, Phillip and Joey. The three boys were very fond of Jeremy, though they’d never admit it. They played with him nearly every day, they taught him self-defense skills, and late at night they’d stay up and tell each other scary stories in the dark. Though they didn’t have much money, and they didn’t exactly live in the best of towns, Jeremy forever would look back at these moments as being part of an idealistic childhood.

Out of all of his brothers, though, the one Jeremy aspired to be the most was Phillip. Phillip was eight years older than him, and he seemed to be the best at everything. He was a star athlete at his high school, he played the guitar like no one’s business, and he had girls swooning over him almost constantly. To Jeremy, he was literal perfection, and Jeremy wanted nothing more than to just be him.

But time changes everything. First, Jimmy went off to college, and while he dropped out about two years in, he somehow ended up with a pretty good job as a tie salesman. Not terribly impressive, but considering that many of his other brothers didn’t have such luck, it was quite the feat.

A year after Jimmy went to college, Phillip won a scholarship from playing baseball, and his whole family celebrated with a graduation party. Everything seemed hopeful, for a moment, as it looked like Phillip was going to really make something of himself.

So, what happened? Inevitably, Phillip got tangled with the wrong people. The details, to this day, are rather unclear, but he became involved with a local gang and, consequently, all of their many antics. All of this culminated in that infamous moment when his coach turned on the lights to the supply shed, only to discover that Phillip had orchestrated an orgy with his fellow gang members and local prostitutes right there on campus.

This led to Phillip getting dropped from school, and afterwards, he lived with his mother and brothers for a while. When he and his mother got into a disagreement over him not having a job, he disappeared into the night, and he didn’t return.

At this point, Jeremy was twelve years old, and the only brother who was still closest to him was Joey, who was sixteen. They hadn’t seen Phillip for quite some time, and by March of that year they seldom spoke about him.

In fact, it was March 15th when everything in Jeremy’s life got flipped on his head: this was the same day he’d gone through his first breakup with his first girlfriend, Joanelys. Joanelys had announced to him that morning during their homeroom period that she was in love with a boy named Nelson, and that she was going to leave Jeremy for him. Oh, how Jeremy had cried! He’d never been so hurt and angry up until that point, and he vowed never to speak to Joanelys again (he would run into her again, years later, and he attempted to speak to her then, but she acted like she didn’t know him).

Jeremy confronted Nelson after school that day, and he made it very clear what his intentions were.

“Hey, fatass!” Jeremy barked, fists balled in anger, storming over to where Nelson was waiting for his bus. “Ya think you can just steal my girl like that?! Huh?!” He grabbed Nelson by the collar of his shirt. “You got somethin’ to say!?”

This confrontation was not a smart move on Jeremy’s part since Nelson was significantly bigger than him. Nelson just glared at him, before sneering, “She likes me ‘cause I ain’t no string bean like you,” he then raised his fist and punched Jeremy right in the nose, knocking him straight to the ground.

Nelson’s bus arrived then, and he got on it, but not before smashing his foot down on Jeremy’s prized Godzilla lunchbox and leaving a significant dent in it. Jeremy scrambled to his feet, just in time to see the bus doors slam shut, and he noticed his dented tin lunchbox laying in the ground.

As Jeremy began to cry again, the other children waiting for their rides home watched him in silent fascination before whispering to each other and pointing. Joey came stalking up from the high school just nearby, and he snatched up Jeremy’s wrist.

“Again!?” Joey snapped at him, leading him towards the sidewalk. “God, Jeremy, ya can’t keep cryin’ over every stupid thing! It ain’t right!” He then turned over his shoulder and barked at the kids watching, “Ain’t anyone ever teach you brats to mind your own business!?”

Joey led his little brother home, and all the while Jeremy told him all about his breakup with Joanelys and his fight with Nelson. Joey commented wryly, “You shoulda smacked the shit out of Joanelys instead, see if that bitch respects ya then!”

When they arrived, Jeremy intended to run straight to his mother and lament to her about his rough day, yet when he and Joey entered the house, they were greeted by the last sight they’d expected to see: their mother sat on the couch, and beside her sat Phillip.

“Phillip!” Gasped Jeremy, dropping everything and racing towards him. “Ya came back!”

Phillip set down his glass of water and caught Jeremy in a hug, pulling him in tightly. “Hey,” his voice sounded different: he sounded tired, worn down. “Hey, there, buddy. How’s it hangin’?”

Jeremy pulled away, and he took a moment to just observe. Phillip looked so much older, now, and his hair had grown longer although it looked as though it hadn’t been washed. He also smelled strange, like a mixture of sweat and fried food.

Joey paused in the middle of the living room, staring Phillip down before asking, “The hell happened to you?”

Their mother answered before Phillip could, “Boys, Phillip is very tired. He just came a real long way, so don’t overwhelm him,” she had a strange look in her eyes, although Jeremy couldn’t quite tell what she was feeling.

Phillip ran a hand through Jeremy’s hair, assuring him, “I’m gonna be okay, I promise. Hey, d’ya wanna play Scrabble later, Jeremy?”

Jeremy nodded. “Okay!” He didn’t actually like Scrabble, he wasn’t good at it, but he really just wanted to spend time with his brother.

They never got to play Scrabble.

Phillip was oddly quiet during dinner, barely mentioning anything about where he’d been all these months, what he’d been up to, or really any details. All he did was tell a funny story about how he saw a naked man at a Taco Bell. Other than that, he seemed more invested in what his brothers were up to more than anything else.

“Jeremy, hun, could you help me with the dishes?” their mother inquired of her youngest son once dinner had ended, and Jeremy nodded.

“Yeah, Ma,” he began to clear up the silverware, but it was then that the phone rang.

Phillip answered with a “Yeah?” before his entire demeanor changed. He fell silent, listening, before he tried to ask, “How did you—?” He stopped, and then quickly hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” Joey asked, looking up from the comic book he’d just pulled out to read.

“No one,” Phillip answered hastily, before throwing on his coat and stumbling out the door.

Jeremy noticed Phillip leaving, and he cried out, “Phillip! Where are you goin’!? I thought we were gonna play Scrabble!”

Their mother had gone upstairs, so she didn’t see when Jeremy pursued Phillip out the door. Phillip jogged down the sidewalk, looking all around in a panic before he realized Jeremy was following him.

“Jeremy!” He hissed, grabbing his brother by the shoulder. “The hell you doin’!? Go back home!”

“No!” Jeremy retorted, clenching his fists. “Why are you leavin’ again without sayin’ anything!? It don’t make any sense!”

Phillip grabbed Jeremy’s hands, looking into his eyes with deep earnestness. “Jeremy, I’m just tryin’ to protect you. Get inside, now!” His voice quivered, and Jeremy knew he meant it.

Jeremy blinked, tilting his head to the side. “Protect me from what?”

“You—,” Phillip was cut off by the screeching of tires, and he whirled around, his face paling. “Shit!”

A beat-up van pulled up, and a cluster of men poured out of the doors. In reality, there were only about six men, but to Jeremy, there seemed to be more, and they all looked huge and terrifying.

A man in a roughed-up suit stepped forward, his lizard-like eyes scanning Phillip and Jeremy. After a moment, he spoke.

“So, Phillip,” he began, his voice rough and raspy. “You thought you could get away this easily, hm? You thought that bringing this child with you would keep us from what we need to do?”

Phillip gritted his teeth, stepping in front of Jeremy to defend him. “Shut the fuck up,”

The man snorted, stepping closer, the streetlights illuminating his face. He was hideous, and Jeremy didn’t even want to look at him.

“Don’t think we won’t hesitate to snuff out the kid, too,” the man snarled. “We don’t need a witness here,”

Jeremy started to shake, gripping Phillip’s arm. “P-Phillip?”

Phillip spoke again, but he was pleading this time. “Diego, please, I’m beggin’ ya. Leave my brothers out of this! It’s me you want, not them!”

Diego pursed his lips together, thinking. The other men behind him began to move in closer, circling Phillip and Jeremy and effectively trapping them.

After a moment, Diego commanded in a cold and monotone voice, “Kill the boy, and make him watch,”

Two men snatched Jeremy up, startling a scared yelp out of him, but Phillip whipped out his pistol and aimed it at both of them. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare!”

One of the men snickered, pulling out his own gun and pressing it against Jeremy’s head. “Phillip, if ya know what’s good for ya, you’ll put that gun down,”

Jeremy shook and cried out, beginning to sob loudly and futilely attempting to wiggle free. “No, no, no! Lemme go!”

Another man grabbed Phillip from behind, but Phillip was prepared. He whirled around, shooting the man in the head before aiming higher and shooting Diego right between his eyes. As both men went down, all hell broke loose.

One of the men holding Jeremy let go of him to rush at Phillip, while the other one pulled out a knife and poised to slash Jeremy’s throat. Jeremy, however, managed to duck away and sink his teeth into the man’s exposed arm, drawing blood with his overbite. The man let out a yell, dropping Jeremy, and the boy promptly scrambled to get away.

“Run, Jeremy!” Jeremy heard Phillip screaming as he was swarmed by the gangsters. “Run, don’t look back!”

Jeremy darted to the backyard as fast as he could, heading for the shed, where he scurried inside to hide. Catching his breath, he crouched down, hugging his knees as he felt himself still shaking like a leaf.

“I ain’t scared,” he repeated in a whisper to himself. “I ain’t scared, I ain’t scared, I ain’t scared…”

It was then that he noticed Phillip’s old bat leaning up against the wall, and he grabbed it, holding on to it tightly as he stared at the door. He could hear all the commotion happening outside, but he didn’t want to register it or even think. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply before pushing the door open just a crack to look outside.

“Gotcha!” A voice bellowed, and that man from earlier grabbed Jeremy by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the shed. “You miss me, kid?!” He held Jeremy above his head, nearly choking him.

Jeremy yelped, and before he even had time to think, he raised the bat up and in a swift motion, he brought it back down and cracked it over the man’s head.

The man dropped Jeremy again, letting out a scream and staggering backward. Jeremy could have taken that time to escape, but rage took over his body. He began to brutally beat his attacker with the bat, smacking him repeatedly and without mercy, reaching whatever part of his body he could with the bat.

“This is for my brother!” His voice pitched as he thrashed the man, not even stopping when blood began to dribble on the bat. “This is for tryin’ to kill me! You’re a fuckin’ asshole, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”

The man finally got a moment to reach for his knife, which he raised to try and stab Jeremy in the arm. However, he never got the chance: a different man, one Jeremy did not recognize from the gaggle of gang members, seemingly appeared out of nowhere and plunged his own knife into the man’s back.

“The police are here!” The new man shouted at Jeremy. “Run— go to them, now!” His accent definitely wasn’t a local one, but Jeremy didn’t even question it as he got up and ran towards the flashing lights, bat still clutched in his hand.

As soon as he ran up to the cars, an older woman caught him halfway there. “Are Jeremy?” She asked him, holding him still to look him in the eyes.

Jeremy sniffed, nodding. “Y-Yeah! Where’s Phillip!?”

The woman just stared with eyes that seemed to glow golden, before she put an arm around Jeremy, solemnly leading him to an ambulance just a few feet away. There, he saw his mother inside, hunched over someone on the stretcher, and she had an expression on her face that was unlike one he’d ever seen on her before.

“M-Ma?” Jeremy began, stepping inside the ambulance. “Ma?”

She lifted her head, her mascara ruined from tears, her eyes wide open. “Jeremy…” Her voice broke, and she grabbed him, holding him close and so, so tightly. “Jeremy! Oh, my god, oh, my god!”

Jeremy hugged back, unsure of what was happening, but he buried his face into his mother’s chest. “Ma, some guys tried the kill me! I dunno what happened to Phillip, did they get him!?”

A cough came from the stretcher, and Phillip’s destroyed voice met Jeremy’s ears. “They did…”

“Phillip?” Jeremy tried to get a good look at him, but his mother just pressed him to her chest so he couldn’t look.

She reached over with a gentle hand, touching Phillip’s face, shaking all over. “Honey…why did this happen to you?!” She sobbed. “Why would they do this!?”

Phillip didn’t answer, and instead, he asked, “Is Jeremy okay?” He lifted his head a little, and Jeremy could see that his eye was swollen shut, and he was covered in bruises.

“I-I’m okay, Phillip!” Jeremy cut in, tears rolling down his face.

“Good…” Phillip let his head fall back down. “Thank God…that’s all that matters…”

His mother sniffed, hovering over Phillip, stroking his hair. “You’re gonna be okay, Phillip,” she whimpered, her lower lip shaking. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise…”

The rest of the night was a blur to Jeremy. The man who had saved him earlier showed up in the ambulance, hugging Jeremy’s mother, and she hugged him back while sobbing. Jeremy didn’t go with Phillip to the hospital, though— instead, the man took him back to the house, picking him up and carrying him up the stairs.

The man told Jeremy to get ready for bed, and he obeyed, brushing his teeth and putting on his pajamas. Once this had been done, he climbed into bed, suddenly feeling immensely tired and wishing to go to sleep as soon as possible, just to escape this hellish reality.

As he began to drift off, though, the man sat on the edge of his bed, where he stroked the boy’s hair and rubbed his back. He acted very lovingly towards Jeremy, almost the way his mother would, and Jeremy just barely registered a quiet lullaby being sung to him.

“Berceuse et bonne nuit,

Tu es le delice de ta mere,

Anges brillants a cote

Ma cherie demeure.

Doux et chaud est ton lit,

Ferme les yeux et repose la tete.

Doux et chaud est ton lit,

Ferme les yeux et repose la tete…”


	7. The Angel (Heavy/Michail)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story Heavy refuses to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven’t updated this in so long! Life’s been crazy. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

It had been three months since the death of his father, and two and a half months since he and the rest of his family had been forced out of their home and into the gulag. 

Misha was only a boy, just fifteen years old, yet he’d lost all hope of ever escaping. There’s was only a sliver of his willpower left, but he used it to defend his mother and his younger sisters. He knew that’s what his father would do, if he were still here, but he wasn’t. Misha felt a deep bitterness every day for the men who killed his father...he’d never hated anyone before, but now hate was all he knew. 

He stared at the wall, a blankness in his eyes, his back stinging like hellfire. He refused to allow himself to feel pain, he’d felt it so long that there was no use crying over it any more. His sisters were crying in the corner, watching him, hugging each other with fear in their eyes. 

The guard rose up from where he was bent over the boy, the whip still in his hand, and he turned to look at the girls huddling and sobbing in the corner. 

“You can be next,” the guard snapped, pointing the whip in their direction. 

Misha turned his head, rage filling his face again, as if he hadn’t just been whipped by this terrifying man. “Leave them alone,” 

The guard snorted. “Still gnawing at the same bone, are we?” He laughed, the whip swinging like a tail. “It’s funny to me when you nasty beasts try to play adults...maybe I should give you another round of whips to shut you up,” 

“No!” Little Zhanna blurted out from the corner, her eyes full of tears. “No, don’t!”

The guard turned to glare at her. “What did you just say? You can get whips too,” 

Before the situation could escalate further, another guard yelled from the hallway, “Volkov! Come out here, the shipments just came in!” 

Volkov growled, tucking the whip back under his shoulder and giving one final look at the children. “I’ll be back for you later,” with that, he stalked out of the room. 

The moment Volkov was gone, Misha got up and went to his sisters, still wincing from the pain of being whipped but trying his hardest to be strong. He gathered Zhanna and Yana, the two littlest ones, into his arms and hugged them close, his heart aching terribly as he heard them weep from the fear and pain. Bronislava stood up after a moment, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she buried her face in Misha’s shoulder, crying silently. Misha just wrapped his arms around all of them, closing his eyes, saying nothing. He wished his father would come back, that this pain would all be brought to an end, although he knew that was impossible. 

After a moment, Misha pulled away from his sisters to check out their tiny window. It was snowing outside, the wind was howling, and their mother had not returned. He knew why: she was still working, she worked longer hours for the guards at the gulag to cover the children’s working shifts so they didn’t need to do the hard, physical labor the guards wanted them to do. To make things easier for, Misha grabbed their bucket and rations of soap, turning on the tiny faucet in their cell so the girls could bathe before their mother came back. It was easier to bathe this way, as Misha felt nervous about using the shower rooms with the other prisoners. He also didn’t want his little sisters to have to shower with strange adults, anyhow. 

“Brother,” Bronislava prodded his arm, handing him a sponge soaked with soap and water. “Here, wash your cuts...”

Misha accepted the sponge, but he remarked, “You put too much soap on this. We should save some for later...”

Bronislava frowned, shaking her head. “But you’re hurt! And mama says you could get infected if you don’t clean well,”

Misha sighed, but he smiled, taking the sponge. “All right...thank you,”

As his sisters took turns bathing with the bucket and sink, Misha sat down on their shared bed, washing his wounds with the damp sponge, lost in thought. What if this was going to be their whole lives? What if there was no light - nothing, just more beatings and work and pain and fear? He couldn’t even imagine how they would ever leave this place, it seemed impossible.  
Their mother said it was important to have faith, and that eventually, things would be all right...but what that wasn’t true?

It was then, though, that something on the floor caught Misha’s eye. At first he thought it was some ice from outside, but as he looked closer, he realized it was metallic. 

Brow furrowing, he stood up off the bed and knelt down, picking up the item and holding it up to get a better look at it. It was a key, with the words, ‘Weapons and Artillery’ engraved into it, and Misha realized was it was right away: it was the key to where the guards kept their weapon stash. Volkov must have dropped it at some point, while he was whipping Misha.

Misha shoved the key in his pocket right away, checking behind him to see if his sisters had noticed. Yana was washing her hair, while Bronislava was distracted with making sure Zhanna cleaned her finger nails properly. Misha wanted to say something to them about his discovery, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He had a key to all the weapons, every single kind the guards used to enforce policies in this awful place...but what could he do? He couldn’t take on those guards, he was just a boy! 

Misha held onto the key all throughout the rest of the evening, even when his mother returned and they had their measly dinner of thin, meatless soup and stale bread provided by the gulag. When the guards came around later to bang on the prisoner’s doors and remind them it was time for bed, all the children curled up on the cramped cot together while their mother slept beside them on what was left of their late father’s torn, tattered fur coat, which they only had because the guards were unable to sell it due to its condition. Misha hardly slept, and when he woke up for the fifth time that night, he finally got out of bed, going to the window and staring outside. 

It was pitch black outside, aside from the few flickers of light glittering onto the surrounding snow. The wind howled mournfully, and Misha closed his eyes, hugging his arms. 

“Father,” he began softly, and he imagined his father there, standing before him. “Papa...I know what I have to do. But...I am scared, I don’t know if I can do it...” he hung his head, pressing his forehead against the wall, his eyes pressed shut. “Papa, please...I need help,”

The wind picked up outside, and Misha shivered with the cold. He knew he should go back to bed, to huddle with his sisters for warmth, but instead he lingered by the window, waiting for something. He didn’t know what it was he was waiting for, but he just needed a sign, any kind of sign, so he would know what to do. 

And then he felt it, so subtle but deliberate: a feeling of warmth, brushing over his arms yet seeming to grip him tightly, almost like he was being hugged. He gasped a little, his eyes opening up, and his heart felt as if there was new life in it.

It was like a fire burning in his chest, but it wasn’t like the fiery rage or bitterness he had grown accustomed to feeling in the recent months. This was a warmth, a determination, a strong urge to go out and do something - and he knew just what that was. 

Misha reached into his pocket, pulling out the key, and he took a deep breath. He understood what he had to do, and he bowed his head in respect towards the window, to the howling wind outside. 

“Thank you, Papa,” Misha murmured, feeling his eyes well up with tears. “I will protect mama, I will protect my sisters...I promise,”

By the following morning, Misha already had everything mapped out in his mind. On the walk to the mess hall for breakfast, he slipped quietly away from everyone else and to guards’ area. The guards had their own cafeteria and bathrooms and places to take breaks, and although Misha wasn’t entirely sure of how to navigate the place, he did his best to sneak past various guards and Soviet soldiers stationed there. 

He tried to think about where they would keep their weapons, where a logical place might be, until he happened upon a staircase leading to a basement. Intrigued, he looked over his shoulder before descending down the steps as quietly as possible, eventually coming to a door marked with several ‘guards only’ signs. It looked as if someone had been down there recently, as there was an open toolbox laying on the ground, so Misha knew he had to act quickly. 

His heart racing, he fished the key out of his pocket, his hands quivering as he began to unlock the door. But he didn’t get far, for out of the silence a voice shouted, “Hey! Who’s down there!?” 

Misha gasped, almost dropping the keys in fear. It was Volkov, with a baton in his hand and another guard at his side, and they were heading down the stairs towards Misha. Volkov had a look of sheer rage in his eyes, one that Misha knew all too well.

“So it was you who stole my key!” Volkov barked, snatching up Misha’s arm and trying to pry the key away from him. “Give it back this instant!”

Misha kept his grip, though his hands were shaking. “No...no!”

The other guard grabbed Misha by his hair, yanking him towards him. “He’s a mouthy one, isn’t he?”

“Indeed,” Volkov raised his baton high above his head. “Hold him for me— once I beat him, he’ll be too weak to defend his sisters, and then they’ll really get it from me!”

In a split second, Misha saw the hammer from the toolbox, and he yanked himself out of the men’s grip and grabbed it. The other guard tried to pounce on him, but Misha swung the hammer with all his might, clocking the guard in the head and knocking him unconscious. Volkov let out a yell, rushing towards Misha with the baton still in his hand, but Misha blocked the blow with the hammer, shoving Volkov back against the wall. Volkov jumped right back up, raising his hand to swing the weapon again, yet Misha dodged it just in time. Thinking fast, he turned the hammer over to shoved the sharper end right into Volkov’s throat, yanking it up in a quick motion with his strong arms. 

It hadn’t occurred to Misha how deadly this attack was, and he didn’t even know he’d killed Volkov until he heard the sound of throaty gurgling. He looked up just in time to see Volkov fall back against the wall, clutching his throat and gagging as the blood soaked the collar of his uniform and his hands. Misha stepped back, watching in both amazement and horror as Volkov took his final breath and died, his throat flayed completely open by the tool. 

There was silence for a long moment. Misha looked around, only to find that no one had heard the commotion that had just taken place in the stairwell. He snapped himself out of his trance, fumbling around on the floor until he found the key he’d dropped during the scuffle, and he quickly opened the door to the storage room.

Sure enough, it was a pantry stocked with weapons and ammunition of all kinds. Misha quickly closed the door behind him, turning on the light inside and going to rummage through the weapons on the shelves. He had some experience with guns already, as he and his father used to go hunting quite often, and he’d also learned how to use a revolver as a means to defend himself. Yet these guns were unlike anything Misha had ever seen before: they were more complicated, and when he picked them up, they were heavier. But, he knew he could learn, and he was no stranger to lifting incredibly dense and heavy objects.   
Misha settled upon a large, glossy gun with a handle, and after some trial and error he figured out how to properly load it. Once this was done, he soon found a wagon in the corner, which he dusted off and began to load more weapons and ammunition into.

It was heavy, it was all so heavy, but Misha knew he could carry it all. He wasn’t going to give up, especially not now.  
Once everything was loaded, he mentally prepared himself, asking the heavens and his father for strength before opening the door. 

Much to his horror, when he opened the door, Volkov and the other guard were gone, although the splatters of blood still remained on the floor. Misha’s heart dropped, and he looked around, though he saw no one at first. He took a few more steps, moving slowly and carefully, but he halted in his tracks the moment he saw the muzzle of another gun pointed right at his chest.

At first, he just saw one guard aiming a gun at him, yet he then noticed more guards just out of the corner of his eye, moving in closer with their weapons poised. 

“Put that gun down, boy,” the guard attempted to coax him, his weapon still aiming at Misha’s chest. 

Misha stood as still as a statue, the handle of the wagon in one hand and the mini gun in the other. He started to feel fear creeping in again, and he wanted to just curl up in a ball and forget the world. 

“Put the gun down,” the man repeated, staring at Misha with bull-like intensity. “You don’t even know how to shoot it,”  
Misha let the handle of the wagon drop to the floor, but before anyone could try and take the other weapons from him, he lifted the mini gun with both hands and reached for the trigger. 

The bullets were like thunder, and it actually scared Misha when he watched them absolutely shred the body of the guard in front of him. He could hear the other guards yelling behind him, but he whirled around, firing in their directions and taking them down one by one, the action of it all so abrupt that somehow he didn’t even register what he was doing at first. The feeling hit him like a freight train though, when he realized what had just happened, but he didn’t have time to sit around and let it sink in. He snatched up the wagon handle again, rushing down the hallway while trying not to slip on blood left behind by the slaughtered guards. The other guards at the gulag had clearly gotten wind of what was going on, and a siren began blaring throughout the building. The prisoners all stopped what they were doing in confusion, looking all around for answers. 

When a few inmates began wandering out of their cells and rooms to see what the commotion was about, they were greeted by the sight of Misha running down the hall, gun in one hand and wagon handle in the other, blood staining his clothing and a look of determination in his eyes. The wagon dragged behind him, filled with bullets, guns and batons. 

Misha’s mother immediately noticed it was him, and she rushed towards him in a frenzy, grabbing his arm. “Misha! Oh, son, we were looking all over for you! What have you—?”

Misha grabbed a gun from the wagon, placing it in her hands. “Mama, we are going to escape this place,” Misha told her hastily. “Take this weapon, tell everyone to take a weapon! We must fight, now!”

His mother searched his face for answers, a clear look of panic on her face, but after a moment she composed herself, taking a breath. “All right, son...all right!” She turned to the other prisoners, pushing the wagon towards them. “Take a weapon, everyone! We will fight them all!”

When the remaining guards rushed for the halls, they were greeted by over a hundred armed inmates, who ambushed them with a rage that had been building up for months. Misha hardly remembered most of it— he just remembered running, the gun clutched in his hands, the hail of bullets mowing down any potential threats. He was afraid, he was angry, but most of all: he felt alive. More alive than he had in months, and in that instant, he could feel his father with him, urging him on and telling him that he would be out soon, and that he and the others would be safe.

At some point during the battle, gunpowder had been scattered all over the floors of the gulag, and some faulty wiring which had been shot down sent some sparks to the ground. As soon as the guards were vanquished and the inmates were all outside in the snow, the entire building exploded into flames. The flames shattered every window, every painful memory, every trace of terror and torture held by its walls, and all the prisoners could do was watch. 

By the time Misha was outside, he’d collapsed in the show, exhausted from what had just taken place. He must have fallen unconscious, because the next thing he knew, he was laying on his father’s torn fur coat on the ground. It had been slightly singed from the fire, but it was there, and Misha would have recognized the feeling of it anywhere. 

He lifted his head, hearing the crackling of a fire, and he felt the tender hand of his mother on his forehead. 

“Shh,” she kissed him, kneeling beside him and holding him close. “My son...”

Misha blinked, sitting up, taking his mother by the arms. “Mama...where are the girls?”

“Sleeping,” she gestured to blankets the girls must have snatched from the building before their escape, which the girls had made a makeshift bed out of. They were sleeping soundly, their hair messy and their skin marked with traces of mud and soot, but they were safe and alive. That was all that mattered. 

Misha looked beside him, seeing the mini gun, and he sighed. “We...we are free,”

“Yes,” his mother stroked his hair, kissing him again. “Yes, because of you. You saved us, my son. You saved all of us...” she placed her hands on his cheeks, looking into his eyes. “I am so proud of you, so grateful to have you as my son,”

Misha’s eyes filled with tears, and he pressed close to his mother, wrapping his arms around her. “Mama...I love you! I will spend my life protecting you and the girls, I promise!” 

His mother rubbed his back soothingly, before pulling away to look him in the eyes. “You’re still only a boy,” she told him gently. “I am so grateful for what you have done today, but you must rest. You deserve some rest...we will find our way home when you awake,”

Misha was getting very tired, so he kissed his mother and laid back down on the fur, curling up against it and closing his eyes.   
“Thank you, Papa,” he murmured, barely audible, feeling the sheet of otherworldly love fall upon him once more. 

He reached over, feeling, before his hand brushed the handle of the mini gun. He smiled to himself, shifting closer to it, and he knew deep down that he would do anything in his power to protect his family and make his father proud.


End file.
